Song Amaranthine
by Roman66
Summary: Short story offering a tangential glimpse into the petty kingdoms of the early Third Age. Original characters.
1. The Kingship of Calmarun

Welcome! This story belongs to the universe of the Silmarillion and LOTR, but it is otherwise distinct from those storylines. All credit for setting, language, culture, style, and general inspiration goes to J.R.R. Tolkien, whose legal permission I do not have to be writing this. Nevertheless, I intend it as an earnest tribute to, not a detraction from, that author and his unsurpassed creative scope.

Please refer as needed to the Selected Name Guide posted at the end. Thank you for reading and reviewing.  
- Roman66

**SONG AMARANTHINE**

This in short is the tale of the curse of Calar: its origin, its fulfillment, and its end.

The Kingship of Calmarun

For it happened after the days of Ëarendur, after the shards of Narsil had come to Imladris, that Firathar son of Formar ruled in Calmarun, east of the Celduin. From this small kingdom came Orlomir and Bremlas son of Brëanor, and Amrundil also, whose story this is in part. But of him we shall say no more at present.

In those days was much trouble, for though a great evil had fallen with the defeat of Sauron in the valley of Gorgoroth generations before, many lesser evils endured, not least in the hearts of the Men who now took it upon themselves to direct the course of the world as they might. Yet Firathar ruled well and wisely, and though his hall was not as great as some Kings of old, yet it was a place of song and of learning. Among the Men of his court were some who had come eastward out of Westernesse, lordly, tall with dark hair and clear eyes, hardy in battle and skilled in song.

Other Men there were, too, some whose golden hair was like to that of Men out of Rohan; others who bore the semblance of Men out of the Far South. Of these last was one named Gayamarth, a man skilled in battle yet more so in craft and in counsel. Less hardy than the Men of Eriador, Gayamarth was oft to be found brewing herbs for both hurt and healing, or poring over legends of the Third Age, than afield at the plow or the hunt. Yet his power and knowledge was great, and he was held close in the King's counsel.

Firathar had no child but one sister who was dear to him, a young woman still, Calar by name, fair and gracious as the sun on a spring morning. And Gayamarth spoke often to her, seeking to win her favor, but Calar preferred the care of the forest to the attentions of men, and of Gayamarth she was fearful, for he kept much hidden. And Calar was like to the Elves for her love of growing things, and field and flower alike flourished under her hand. Gayamarth went to her as she sat among the birches and sang to their fluttering leaves. "Thou art like unto a child of Yavanna Kementári herself, who with her song awakened the Two Trees of Valinor," said Gayamarth to her, and reached out to touch her hand, but she withdrew into the forest, timid as a doe at a spring.

So none perceived, as seasons wheeled, that Gayamarth grew bitter, holding himself unthanked by Firathar and cast off by all. He took to roaming abroad on his horse, and would take his leave for a month or more, returning with a darkened brow. The sight of his black and tattered cloak emerging from the edge of the northern plains was a sight so often reported that the men of Firathar's hall called him the Carrion-crow, and made wagers on his next disappearance. And some whispered that it was to the Sorcerer of the Grey Mountains that he made his errands, though none dared to follow him beyond the rolling hills of the kingdom's boundaries.

Then all in secret Gayamarth began to keep counsel with a number of the king's warriors, taking them into his confidence with tales of his travels or fair words of flattery. With tokens or wisdom he won them, not speaking against Firathar but ever appearing high and noble, a true lord of men. And he rode abroad no more and feared no unkind rumors, for those warriors he favored were utterly loyal to him and would hear no evil spoken of him. Firathar himself rejoiced, saying, "Behold, my friend! Thou needst not walk alone nor afar. This indeed is thy home."

So it was that when Firathar rode against a horde of wolves in the north, taking with him a small host of valiant warriors, Gayamarth rode at his right side. But the wolves were many and strong, seven score at least, fiercer than the bitter wind off the mountains, some nigh as large as the King's horses. In that battle the wolves drove between the king and his left flank, and his force was divided and surrounded. But his men rallied, men of surpassing strength and will, and broke the wall of ravening wolves. Many wolves fell under the swords of Firathar's men, but the strength of the wolves at last began to tell. Sensing the horses' weariness and fear, the wolves unseated many fighters and killed their mounts. Then at last the fortune of the battle was decided, and the wolves fell upon them in full force. The King, still mounted, they isolated, but Gayamarth gave a great cry and fought his way to his lord, hewing the great grey hides of the wolves.

So Firathar and Gayamarth fought shoulder to shoulder, with broad sword strokes seeking to keep the sea of grey at bay. And one great black wolf fell upon the neck of the King's horse and dragged him down, but Gayamarth wrapped one arm around the breastplate of his lord and sought to bring him astride his own horse. Then the wolves tore at the legs of the King while Gayamarth pulled, and Firathar gave a great cry, and all who could wheeled and strove to reach his side. After a long moment the wolves pulled him down and he was lost. But one warrior, Halen son of Hama, saw that Gayamarth had drawn his dagger in his left hand, and it seemed to him that Gayamarth plunged it deep behind the shoulder of the King, causing him to cry out and succumb to the claws and teeth below.

Gayamarth rode forth bearing the sword of the Firathar, and with a shout led them in retreat. Yet as though summoned by some will, or having fulfilled some dark mission, of one accord the wolves slunk away toward the mountains. Seeing this, Gayamarth brought the men around, and weary and wounded but with the vengeance of their King burning in their hearts, on foot and on horse they gave such pursuit as they might, but the wolves melted into the hills. Then they recovered the body of their King, most grievously ravaged. The bodies of their comrades were too numerous to bear, but with stones they built a mound and laid them to rest. The body of Firathar was born upon Gayamarth's saddle, and they followed in his wake.

The people made much wailing over their beloved King, and gave him a worthy burial. Many among them spoke for Gayamarth to be crowned as the new King, and loudest were the warriors in his counsel. For Calar his sister had no son, and in those lands the custom was to pass on kingship by the King's sword, and Gayamarth made claim that with his last effort Firathar had bestowed his sword upon him. Halen did not speak openly the thought in his heart, which was that Gayamarth had suffered no attack while he held the King before the jaws of the wolves, nor had he been unseated, though his horse had been vulnerable. But he spoke of it to his wife, who was the chief attendant to Calar. So it was that Calar heard of Gayamarth's treachery in the secret of her chamber, though maybe it were better had it been proclaimed in the hall.


	2. The Curse Laid

The Curse Laid

Some men wondered at the behavior of the wolves that day, how they had come in vast numbers and slackened their onslaught all of a sudden. But at his crowning with soothing words Gayamarth bid them lay aside their profitless questioning and devote themselves rather to the honor of the late King's memory. "For if there is some force of evil to be found in it," he said, "let us only be glad we have been spared, and look to meet it in readiness should it come again." It was at this time also that he offered his hand to Calar in marriage, that she and her children might share in the throne of her family. But she refused, knowing in her heart the truth of Halen's witness. Gayamarth was wroth, for he sensed she trusted him not, and knew he himself had done a great wrong. Yet true to his twisted heart, he sought recourse for his evil in further evil, so that he renewed the rumor that the wolves obeyed the bidding of some unseen master. But, it was now said, Calar herself was the dark enchantress, and had called down the wolves that day to murder her brother. Then came forth Halen's tale as well, but as Calar was known by many but beloved by few, being so often solitary and so reserved as to seem cold, while Gayamarth had the word of a dozen good men, the lie prevailed in the fair guise of truth, while Halen's word was not heeded and he suffered much ridicule; and men said to one another, "It was by sorcery that she inspired so great a love in her brother, and by this same sorcery she spun a lie upon the tongue of Halen."

So it was that Calar was banished from the realm, spared execution only by the mercy of the new King (though in truth he could not bear even now to put her beneath the sword, knowing his guilt) and Halen and his wife went willingly with her as companions, and long in that land was recited the legend of the evil Princess Calar and her crooked servants. But these three came safely through Mirkwood Forest and took refuge in the land of Dunlas under King Balan. And as she left the borders of her home behind her, casting one last glance upon the flowers of her beloved fields, Calar spoke this curse upon Gayamarth:

"As he has begun, so may he continue: may his house be filled with bloodshed and his line be accursed; may the sword he has taken fall upon him." These words she spoke before fording the Celduin, and looked never on that land again.

And though in Malaira, the King's city of the land of Dunlas she prospered, she forgave never the evil of Gayamarth against her, and when she had taken a husband and borne a son she named him Sárion, which is Bitterness. A daughter she bore also, and named her Tielenien, saying, "Now shall there be an end to my sorrow." Yet too soon she spoke, for a great sickness swept through the land and carried off her husband. Then Sárion too fell ill and perished while yet a young man, and when Calar followed not six months later, those who knew her did not doubt that grief had been the main cause.

So Halen and his wife raised Calar's daughter with their own children, and when she came of age she married a son of their house, Harthing by name. And at his passing Halen told Harthing all that had befallen the mother of Tielenien, and urged him to spare her the burden of the history. For Tielenien was a radiant lady, blithe and full of song, while her mother had been sad and cold to the end of her days, a blighted branch on a troubled vine.

"The mending of this tale begins with your house," said Halen to his son. And Harthing kept these words near to his heart, forgetting none of what had been told him, but keeping Tielenien from the knowledge of it.


	3. Of Halen's Line

Of Halen's Line

The house of Harthing was both full and merry; four sons were born to the daughter of Calar. The eldest was Hymlar, tall, quick in the perceiving but slow in the speaking of things he had seen; little escaped his notice. He was the gravest among his brothers, and his hair like his father's was honey-gold. When he had attained his manhood, he took on a pilgrimage to Rivendell with two other warriors of the realm, and dwelt there long as a pupil of Elrond, becoming learned in the lore of the Elves.

Folmo and Darmo were twins; rarely were they seen apart. Folmo was bold, tending to brash, and could ever be found sparring with sword or spear. His brother Darmo was but no less strong, but where Folmo's clear voice sounded often in shouts of victory Darmo was more apt to give a hearty laugh and a kind word. Both were dear to the King of Dunlas for their valor, but when they had grown they took fond leave of him and journeyed west to Eriador, and there lent their swords to the Numenoreans, whom they resembled in form and disposition.

But Amrundil the youngest sat at the feet of Balan his King from a young age. For Harthing his father desired to repay the kindness of Balan toward all his kin, for it was Balan who had succored Calar and Halen his father. King Balan was now much advanced in years, but his love for the family of Harthing son of Halen had diminished none, nor had he grown bitter though his only son Beregar had perished while defending the land against a band of wild men. Thus Harthing presented to him the boy-child Amrundil to be his esquire, for Balan was now feeble in his limbs. And this service Amrundil was indeed willing to perform, for he was a compassionate lad, skilled in the handling of both Man and beast, and it was said that there was hope for any horse who would bear him, no matter how wild; and the same was said for any man whom Amrundil could bring to his side.

And in the days when Amrundil had nearly attained the full strength of body and spirit, and was earning renown upon the field of battle, it happened that Mirduniel, a venerable matron of the land, received into her home a kinswoman, Nestaloth by name. Little of her charge did Mirduniel know, save that she was a daughter of a cousin whom death had claimed some time ago. The girl was presented to King Balan at her coming, and all the court beheld a comely maiden with dark streaming hair, and dark eyes also. Her bearing was humble but graceful, as one high-born who is familiar with sorrow.

Balan received her graciously, but his mind was turned toward the plight of his people, for drought had greatly lessened the harvest of that year, and in those days he had little patience for the niceties of court. So Nestaloth dwelt with her cousin, seeking no notice from lords and warriors. "Far more like is she to go to the hills and return with an armful of greens than to dance with my daughter and the other girls in the square," remarked Mirduniel, and she spoke truly, for though Nestaloth had a kind word for any she encountered, rarely did she seek friendship with them. But the songmaster of the hall she sought often, desiring to know the lore of the land. Many hours she spent beside a hearth in the King's hall, listening to lays or asking questions of old Master Gorling.


	4. An Unknown Song

An Unknown Song

So it happened one day as Amrundil went to and fro within the hall, attending to his lord's business, that the sound of a harp and a woman singing made him pause. As the voice was exceedingly clear, and both voice and melody unknown to him, he ventured to the songmaster's quarters and there happened upon old Gorling and Nestaloth with the harp in her hands, for it was she who had been singing. He stopped, amazed; but upon his entrance she stopped and stood to make a curtsey, for Amrundil was beloved and revered by all but he cried, "Stay, lady, and let not my rough presence deter you! I came only to learn whose hands so skillfully dance upon the harp, and whose voice is so blessed as to surpass the melodious Western wind in fairness."

Gravely she spoke: "My lord speaks kindly, but I have tarried over-long in the indulgent company of Master Gorling," she replied, and made to return the harp to him.

But Gorling said, "Nay, Nestaloth, you must stay, for not even the birds fly before our Amrundil, so gentle is his heart and so fair his countenance, and a word of praise from him is justly spoken. And, my lord, I bid you stay, that you may join me in bearing witness to the skill of this child of Mirthuniel's household."

And with much urging they prevailed upon her to take up the harp once more; and as a steady hand and a soft word may calm a saddle-shy horse, so the pleasant words of Amrundil set her at ease. Her song was brief, the melody weighted with sadness, but the words were foreign to the ears of her listeners.

"Is it said your name is Nestaloth? For I name you Amanlindë, blessed is your singing. Are you the maker of the song?" asked Amrundil.

She answered him, "The melody is of my own making, but the words are not."

"I have not heard such a language before. What is the import of the song?" asked Gorling.

"Ah," said Nestaloth, and it seemed to them that a shadow passed over her face; "the language is that of my father's people, and the words are a prophecy of my father's line."

Then Amrundil said, "A like language have I heard spoken between my own father and his father, though I myself learned it not. Is it not akin to those spoken by men far to the South?"

Nestaloth turned eyes wide with wonder and grief toward him and said, "Have you indeed heard such a tongue? For I have not known King Balan to speak it."

Amrundil laughed merrily. "But King Balan is not my father; no, I am the son of Harthing, esquire to the king."

"Then you are twiced blessed, my lord, for you come of good and mighty stock, and serve a like man," said Nestaloth. "I knew not that the great Harthing had kin of that land; but now it were better if I sang of it no more." And they could not entice her to sing more that day, nor did she make mention of that lay again, but ever after Amrundil remembered her, and sometimes sought her when there were gatherings in the hall, to speak words of well wishes upon her and her kin.


	5. Amrundil's WarBand

Amrundil's War-Band

That winter was a harsh one for the realm, bitterly cold and full of snows come up over the Misty Mountains. A great number perished of hunger and cold because of the poor harvest, and though many were willing to share what little they had with a neighbor in need, still sometimes theirs was the evil choice between sparing a dear friend and sustaining their own children. But when the first tenacious beams of sunlight spilled onto the grey plains and warmed them into a muddy brown, all of Dunlas breathed deeply of the air laced with the fragrance of the earth, and felt their hearts lightened.

Yet trouble had not departed from that land, for rumor was brought to them of a foul swarm of spiders, dog-size at least, driven out of Mirkwood by desperate hunger, now terrorizing the king's eastern borders. So Amrundil mustered a party of men, some on foot and others riding as they were able, and led them forth under the King's banner. A proud band they were, faces stern, grown fell by hunger; but still they sang as they went. The voice of Amrundil sounded forth strongly with the battle-horns as they passed through the city's tall wooden gates, and his childhood friend and dear comrade-in-arms Bralfin rode at his side.

And the greater part of the city gathered at the gates, calling out to their stalwart defenders words of fortitude, but Balan was sickly and remained abed some weeks before and after the party was sent. His physicians attended him faithfully, but his affliction was not foremost disease but age, for which there is no antidote among the races of Men. Neither was Nestaloth present among those hopeful masses, for she sought the first tender herbs in the gladdening fields. (As she did so, by the craft of her people she spoke a virtue of restoration upon those places.) But Mirthuniel was there at the gates with Fimlas her daughter, and both rejoiced at the proud sight.

"Faith, and the Lord Amrundil is a most well-favored man. Evil and sorrow touch him not," said Fimlas as the three supped that night. Mirthuniel's husband Erthador was one of the king's guards, and often his service kept him at the hall long after nightfall.

"I doubt not your true meaning - you think him handsome," replied Mirduniel as her daughter reddened. "And I for one shall not debate his excellence with you. But have a care! For he is like to be named King Balan's heir, and there are sure to be many seeking his attention."

"Lanthela says Grathor is a fitter man for the kingship," said Fimlas.

"Oh, aye, if the size of a man's arms were a measure of a man's spirit. Lanthela is like to turn her cow's eyes upon any who can shoulder a barrel - you need not pattern yourself after her. Nestaloth, now, she cares not to go ambling after men like a dazed sheep in tow of its shepherd."

"Ah, but if we are sheep, Nestaloth is a golden owl, who flies silently where she will and shuns the world of daylight and Men."

At these words Nestaloth laughed without bitterness and said, "I do not contest nor resent the description, Cousin. But you have forgotten the second name for the bird: the Death Owl, bird of ill omen."

"Nay, nay," cried Fimlas, fearing she had offended her kinswoman. "Sorrow and death brought you into our arms, but they pursue you no more."

"In this I hope you speak truly also," replied Nestaloth with a smile. "Yet for now I shall not change my habit, for my sorrow is still too near at hand."


	6. The Hands of a Healer

The Hands of a Healer

The coming days brought sweet-breathed blossoms to the blackthorns, and leafbuds emerged on all the trees, a rising mist of green. No tidings were brought until the campaign's end: one of the warriors of Amrundil's vanguard came galloping through the city gates, a body draped across his saddle. The city folk, men and women alike, scattered from the main road to make way as he plunged up the path. Fimlas and Nestaloth stopped short with their baskets of weaver's cloth, for an instant frozen by the sight; then Nestaloth cast away her basket and ran after the rider, leaving Fimlas still gaping by the side of the road.

The warrior halted before a small cottage, which Nestaloth, following as quickly as she could, knew to belong to Bralfin and his wife Rhean. Fearing the body to be Amrundil's companion, she slowed her pace and put her hand over her mouth, caring not that the townsfolk stared at her as much as at the rider and his burden. Rhean emerged from the house and held a few low words with the rider, then went to the saddle and put a trembling hand on the body of her husband.

As Nestaloth drew near, struggling to keep pace with the rider who was returning to the roadside, she asked, "What has befallen?"

"He has suffered many spider-bites," he replied in an undertone. "He lives, but - Ho! You, Gildan, and you, Feantir! Help me bear this man inside! - the poison waxes stronger within him and his strength fails."

Moved with fear at this news, Nestaloth asked, "Where are the others?"

The rider replied, "The better part of the fighting is at its end. They have been driven back, the foul creatures. We have sustained few injuries, and none worse than Bralfin, though his wounds are grave - curse the spawn of Ungoliant! I was bidden by Amrundil to bear him home with all haste. The others will arrive within the day, happen as not."

Then Nestaloth approached Rhean the wife of Bralfin and spoke boldly and said, "I have some skill in healing, and this type of poison is not unknown to me. If there is aught to be done, I place my services at your feet."

With tears gathering in her soft grey eyes like rainwater in a glassy pool, Rhean replied, "Your kindness gives me hope. Only do what must be done, and I will ever be in your debt."

And Nestaloth said, "Even were he a vagabond upon the fields, still would I give the best of my skill and craft. But pray speak not of debt to one who has benefited from the valor of men like your husband. "

"Let us hope your skill is sufficient," muttered the rider under his breath, and continued to the King's hall to bear his tidings.

It was after dark when the war party returned; the gate-guards gladly granted them entry and they streamed towards the hall. Balan had so far heard all that the lone rider had to tell, and now Amrundil stood before the king and made his report. The spiders slain numbered three score at least, and more had retreated before the fierce swords of the warriors. But as he spoke Amrundil's brow was clouded, as one whose thought is bound up elsewhere, and when he had finished he begged leave of the king to go to Bralfin's bedside.

The vanguard-rider took Amrundil aside before he passed out of the hall. "A healer is there now in his house. It may be there is hope for him yet," he said.

In despite of these words the heart of Amrundil was heavy as he walked through the tranquil darkness to the house of his friend. Upon his coming Rhean welcomed him gladly in and brought him to the chamber of Bralfin. There he found to his amazement Nestaloth applying a salve from a kettle upon Bralfin's wounds. A fire blazed in the hearth and a sweetness suffused the air of the room, lightening the hearts of all who breathed it.

Taken with surprise he whispered, "I did not think to find you here, Amanlindë!"

"Indeed, my lord, the art of healing is much practiced in my family," she replied. "And my kinsmen came West through the Greenwood [that is now called Mirkwood Forest]; I am no stranger to the handiwork of these spiders."

The face of Bralfin was bloodless and a sickly green upon the pillow, and occasionally he muttered and tossed his head as though haunted by an ill dream. "How fares my friend?" asked Amrundil.

She answered, "He rests easier now, I think. The salve draws out the poison, and I have now dressed him for the third time, but I fear there is still much in his body. The flesh of his sword-arm is much damaged, but I will do what I can to save it - but, alas! I fear I have too little salve to do much more."

Then Amrundil entreated her and said, "Let me gather what you need, for I can ride fast and far and I could not bear if he should now succumb to his hurts."

To this Nestaloth gave brief thought, and weighed the paths before her with care and haste, for both were much needed in that hour. At length she replied, "Much I have already harvested from the western fields. The herb I most require grows close to the ground, and to find the leaves is a difficult task even for one who knows what she seeks and does so in daylight. Moreover if not removed from the plant correctly the leaves soon wither and lose their virtue."

"Then what are we to do? I begin to despair for my beloved comrade," cried Amrundil.

Nestaloth replied, "Lend me your horse, and I will search the fields east of the city."

But Amrundil said, "You do not know your peril, for spiders that we encountered not may be upon those fields even now."

"I will take on that peril," she said, "for there is naught else to do. You must stay at his bedside - he needs new bandages on his sword-arm. Rhean will aid you."

"Then take him, and may good fortune attend you!" said Amrundil.

At these words Nestaloth ran to the King's stable without cloak or boot and galloped out of the city like one pursued by evil. For his part, Amrundil went to Bralfin's side, lifted his arm, and began to unwrap the bandages with great gentleness. As he drew near the wounds, the layers began to be stained with blood and a foul-smelling green pus; when Amrundil at last uncovered the arm he cried aloud in horror and grief, for the forearm was hideously purple in color and stank of rotting flesh. And Rhean went about bathing the arm and the festering livid lumps which marked the bites, her tears mingling with the water in her basin, and together she and Amrundil applied the last of the pale-green poultice and bound the wounds once more.

It was some hours before Nestaloth returned, her satchel full and her face full of care, but she prepared the salve and changed the bandages again with no sign of weariness. Amrundil, however, fought valiantly against the urge to fall asleep as he sat, worn out by battle, travel, and worry. So Nestaloth sent them away to rest, and Amrundil retreated to a chair by the fire, but Rhean could not be persuaded to yield the vigil to Nestaloth alone.

So the two women watched away the deep hours of the night, and when Amrundil opened his eyes with the rising light of day he saw them bent over the forehead of Bralfin. Fearing the worst, Amrundil sprang to their side, but found that Bralfin slept peacefully, and though still pale there was no longer a green tinge to his face.

"Yes," said Nestaloth, "he will live and be whole." Then laughing and weeping the three embraced, and kissed the forehead of the sleeping man. But Nestaloth would receive neither thanks nor gifts, and bound them not to spread rumor of her gifts too widely.


	7. A Second Line

A Second Line

Now after all this had passed came the planting season, and Nestaloth often set to work alongside her kinswomen in their share of the fields. And when she was not required there she set about adding to her store of healing plants. And after the time of planting was held a festival in the King's hall, in expectation of a better harvest. Much joy there was, much drinking and supping, and all present forgot their sorrows amid song and celebration. Mirduniel was there, and Fimlas and Nestaloth as well, but among so many Nestaloth was ill at ease. Seeking to gain respite from the press and noise of the crowd, she slipped into the halls to seek the chamber of Gorling.

As she went she happened upon Amrundil holding counsel with King Balan. She made to slip past them, but her footsteps on the stone flags caught his attention. "But here is the maiden of the East, the Lady Nestaloth! he cried.

"Nay, my lord," she replied gravely, "you do me too much honor. For I am no lady but only a servant of the land."

"Nevertheless it gladdens my heart to see you, fair sister." Turning to the King he said, "She it was who healed Bralfin son of Ban when he was thought poisoned beyond all hope." At these words Nestaloth made to speak but Amrundil continued, "A musician she is also, and her skill upon the harp is without parallel in these lands."

The aged King Balan turned a still-keen gaze upon her, and he inclined his head in respect.

Abashed, Nestaloth made a low curtsey and responded, "I have no words nor boasts in the presence of two such peerless men. The Lord Amrundil speaks with the fair words of a noble man, but the honor is his and not mine."

Without waiting for another word, she hurried away. She found Master Gorling in his chamber, taking his ease before another bout of song in the hall. "Your face is flushed as with much running," he observed to her.

Avoiding his eyes she replied, "The hall is overcrowded and the air is close."

"And unless I heard amiss, you had some words with Amrundil and the king a moment ago."

Nestaloth was silent.

"The Lord Amrundil speaks highly of you," said Gorling.

She lowered her eyes and bowed her head. "Lord Amrundil has ever been quick to honor me. A more generous friend I have not found," she said.

He asked, "And yet you do not seek his love?"

To this she replied, "I have his respect. To claim his attention from greater matters would be a poor way to repay his kindness; a temptation that would betray his trust in me."

"Yet," said Gorling, "your gaze and, I warrant, your thoughts turn often to him."

"Do they indeed?" said Nestaloth "Alas! Then I must guard myself more carefully, for mine is a cursed lot and I would not sully him with it."

For a moment Gorling gazed intently at the young woman before him. "Not for the first time do you make mention of this family misfortune. Will you not confide in me its nature, so that I may better protect you?"

Nestaloth hesitated. "I do not wish to burden you with a troubling tale," she said.

"Will you not trust a friend who would willingly bear it with you?"

Nestaloth replied, "I admit my pride restrains me, for I would not have those I hold dear think less of me."

"I beg you," said Gorling, "do not insult me by believing me guilty of such disloyalty. I would wager the song you played some time ago is at the heart of it."

Then speaking slowly, Nestaloth said, "Near, but not at the heart." And she recounted the history of Gayamarth and Firathar, adding, "Naught has gone well for my father's people since that day. For in a dream - nearer a vision, I think - Gayamarth saw Calar upon the banks of the Celduin, and she spoke a dire curse upon his line. Three sons had Gayamarth; the second killed the eldest for the kingship and was killed in turn by the eldest's son. The third son was my father Nanqueto who fled south at the death of his brother. There he took a wife, a kind and goodly woman of the South, for earnestly did my father himself desire to be free of the curse upon his family. Ever did his wife hope for the same, and she spoke a prophecy over him, which same you heard me sing to a melody of my own making. The language is a dialect of the Far South, but roughly translated it runs thus:

"_Though cursèd king shall cast his woes  
On generations hence,  
The crown of thornbush is the rose,  
By sacrifice immense.  
A child shall come, no thanks to gain,  
And bind up ancient wounds,  
A mighty will endure much pain  
That crown the throne assume_."

As though awaking out of a deep sleep Gorling said, "Much is now clear to me. But what is the import of the prophecy? In whom did your mother foresee its fulfillment?"

"The lady was not my mother," said Nestaloth, "for she died giving birth to a son, my half-brother, and my father took another wife, a woman whose kin came out of the North. But my mother, too, pitied my father and ever did both repeat the prophecy to me as a child and yearn for its consummation.

"As for the subject of the prophecy - and there may be several, depending on the reading - it is hidden to me. And I am content, for like my father my only wish is to avoid the path of destruction. But, alas! my half-brother is more like to his uncles, and his only thought was to gain the kingshiop of his grandfather. Often did he reproach my father for not making claim on his brother's throne. When my mother and father both perished after a drought in those Southern lands, my half-brother assembled some loyal men, wooing them with promises of rich lands and lordship, and marched upon his uncle and slew him. He sits upon the throne now, and bade me swear fealty to him or die, and so I fled, sending a trusted friend to beg sanctuary of my kinswoman in this land. Now my life depends upon my brother's ignorance of my whereabouts, and so I guard my history closely."

The brow of Gorling was clouded with sorrow as he replied, "I fault you not, for that is indeed a heavy tale. But, stay, I have remembered that Amrundil spoke once of -"

But at that moment Amrundil himself appeared on the threshold of the chamber, saying merrily, "Come, Gorling, the men demand another song. Will you not oblige?"

Gorling stood and bowed in answer, taking up his harp.

"My lady as well is very welcome in the hall, though I doubt not you tire of the noise and company," said Amrundil to Nestaloth.

"Indeed, I fear I must take leave of my lord and retire to my humble house," she said.

"May peace and fair dreams await you there," he replied before following Gorling.


	8. The Defense of Dunlas

The Defense of Dunlas 

Not three weeks had passed when a fell-faced rider upon a tall grey horse, fully armed and bearing a courier's emblem thundered into the city, refusing all questioning at the gates, and demanded a parley with Balan. While the city was still murmuring of this arrival, Gorling appeared, cloaked, at the door of Mirduniel's house, calling for Nestaloth. It so happened that she was alone in the house that day, which news Gorling was relieved to hear. As he entered he shut the door before removing his hood, then said to her, "I have dark news. Is your half-brother not the King of Calmarun to the East? A fearsome warrior by the name of Gwestanion?"

"That is indeed my brother," said Nestaloth, and fear was in her eyes.

Then Gorling said, "Your brother has sent a messenger to demand the allegiance of the King and all his heirs. Balan and Amrundil will surely refuse, and your brother will surely make war upon us until we have submitted."

Nestaloth cried aloud as though feeling a dagger plunged into her side, and she said, "Cursed be the day when my brother first drew breath! For this is evil indeed. What is to be done?" Then she said, "I must go and entreat him to withdraw and trouble these lands no more."

"But you will certainly be killed! If not by your brother's hand, then by the hands of his warriors. Think you not that his men wait just beyond the borders?" asked Gorling.

She replied, "I think not so, for I know him to be a vain and boastful man. No doubt he believes the rumor of his name is sufficient to cow an old king into obedience."

"If this is true," said Gorling, "you must outride his courier and hope that your brother will give ear. Take my horse, lady! Come, let us ready her now! She was a gift from my master the King, but I seldom ride and no doubt her spirit hungers for more valiant essays than turnip-buying."

"I hope this shall prove to be one," replied Nestaloth as they hurried up the straight road, past the hall with its high stone walls and wood-beamed roof to the eastern stables. There they found Gorling's mare Flintfoot, a small blue roan who whickered into Nestaloth's hand at their meeting. "Many thanks, dear friend, both now and for the future if my mission should prove successful! Tell Amrundil not to bow to this demon, but to rally his own troops and delay this messenger," said Nestaloth.

"He needs no such counsel," said Gorling.

So it was that before the belligerent rider took his leave of King Balan's hall, Nestaloth rode out from the southern gate of the city. No man did she encounter on that desperate errand through field and wood, eluding even the scouts at the border until she reached the proud city of Coronthalion.

A stern guard gave her cold greeting at the gate but denied her entrance, saying, "The King receives no guests nor travelers in this time of dread war."

To this Nestaloth replied, "Is he then so afeared of his enemies?"

"Nay," growled the guard, clutching tighter his spear. "He is afeared of naught."

"Then surely he will not refuse to see his little sister, whom he has hunted nigh a year!" And she threw back her hood to reveal her burning eyes like dark coals. In that hour, with the light of the setting sun kindling the edges of her hair into flame, truly terrible and like to the august king she appeared in the eyes of the guard.

So she was brought by armed escort to the presence of her kinsman, and she made known her mission. No entreaty did she make, for she was familiar with his disposition and knew well he would hear none. Thus she declared to him: "Brother! Cease thy base campaign against the western kingdoms! Wouldst thou walk still further on the bloodied and fruitless path marked out by our accursed fathers? Wouldst thou no longer be Gwestanion [which is 'son of the promise'] but Rachonion [that is, 'son of the curse']?" A traitorous usurper hast thou proven already, but never while I live shalt thou be also be a murderer of innocents with whom thou hast no quarrel!"

"Then thou art already dead," he replied, and motioned his guards to take her to the jail.

Now Amrundil, knowing his duty towards his master's kingdom, had not been idle; indeed, before the hooves of Gwestanion's messenger sounded down the path out of the city he had sounded the call for a muster of warriors throughout the realm, and they rode out that same day to meet him where the Mirkwood Road met the Forest. A day's march it was, from most points of the land, and three of the same to traverse the woods. Two days they made camp at the edge of the forest til all the men were marshaled. Amrundil outfitted the men in light gear, such as would serve them for battle among the trees, which he deemed more likely than upon the plains of Dunlas.

As they camped that night in the forest the vigilant scouts waylaid a slender young man on horseback, arrayed in a cloak of grey-green, elf-made; of the same color and like material was his hood, but thinner and nearly transparent it was. This hood he had lowered and fastened so that naught could be seen of his face but only a dim shadow or glint of eye.

They brought him before Amrundil, who asked of his name and errand.

"The first is secret, for I have sworn to keep my name and face hidden," said the traveler with a voice scarcely lower than a woman's, "but the second is to you. I beg you to let me fight at your side, as one indebted to you and bound to your service. By virtue of this errand you may call me Gwenniol."

Amrundil laughed in amazement. "What, and shall I send this young Elvish pilgrim, one of the Immortals, a sapling Mirkwood tree of a deathless forest, into brutal battle? Shall I hold one I have ne'er beheld beholden to me? Whatever name you may choose, I have no claim against you; for my part, you are welcome, and indeed shall be held in honor as a guest and wanderer. There is no need to speak of my pardon."

"Nonetheless I crave it," Gwenniol replied, and would not be dissuaded from joining the men, nor would he for any cause remove his hood in their presence. For the most part he stayed silently at the edges of the camp, though always near to the tent of Amrundil, seeming to sleep little after the manner of the Elves and speaking even less. But when parties of Gwestanion's men were sighted and the host made forays against them in small parties, the boy proved a fearless fighter; less sturdy, maybe, than the men, but swift and agile. The men called him Elvenhame, or else Dindaen, the silent shadow, and he kept his own counsel and was zealously vigilant of Amrundil his adopted master.


	9. The Debtor

The Debtor

The campaign continued, with each side sending out scouts and war parties, and the men of Dunlas sought ever to thwart the progress of Gwestanion's men through the forest, but though they gave no ground, neither did they gain it. All the art of their scouts and trackers, as well as the strength of their fighters, was required to stay abreast of their enemy's maneuvers. Amrundil led in all the affrays, but they saw no trace of Gwestanion in the clashes. "Ever will his like send others into battle to safeguard his own power over them," muttered Bralfin. All about them the woods rose ominous, the trees glaring down, forbidding and ill-tempered watchmen, and sometimes a foul-smelling steam would seep between the close-set trees, turning the bark slick and the men's thoughts brooding and dark.

Now it was the eighth day of fighting when the scout Narthang sped into the camp with news of a large force traveling west, headed by Gwestanion himself. "It has come at last," said Amrundil, "the hour when we must turn away the evil which threatens our land once for all. Make you ready, all, for our meeting." Though men and supplies seemed in plenty, still Amrundil preferred to station small parties to the flanks by stealth and arrow, "For," he said, "the gnat may cause the bear to stumble. We must preserve all the men we can for the future of the land." Yet the great battle came on them at last, and was the more chaotic and risky for being fought among the trees. Many a warrior found his sword driven into the heart of a tree instead of a foe, or lost his balance among the twisted roots underfoot. The battle had been waged an hour or less, and the men of Dunlas fighting well, when Gwestanion appeared with his main guard, two thousand strong. Most terrible he appeared, tall and dread, arrayed in the armor of the line of Firathar, and his helm shone out gold from the rare sunrays beneath the treetops. Mighty was his arm, and he felled men like wildflowers beneath the scythe, hewing his westward path.

Catching sight of him, Amrundil cried, "Stay, Gwestanion! Your war is against me, and you shall slay no more before you have met my sword!" And his ferocity increased by urgency, he dispatched with great speed all who stood between he and his foe. So in the midst of the great Woodland Battle these two felt at last the bite of the other's sword. And the sword of Gwestanion was Drauganc the sword of Firathar, a mighty blade in the hands of the traitor, while the sword of Amrundil was Luinlach, of steel so pure it flashed blue in battle. Yet this noble blade could not of its own merit stay the wrath of Gwestanion, blind to all but his bloodlust, and Amrundil began to give ground before the onslaught of his opponent. Then an ill fate guided his foot amiss; a rock gave way down a slope and Amrundil fell to his knees, his ankle twisted badly, still withstanding the attacks thundering upon his sword, but unable to render the same; nor was it within the power of any man near to come to his aid, for they were scattered among the trees, overwhelmed by the fighting force of Calmarun. The left arm of Amrundil was dealt a grievous blow, and his right tired so that he could scarcely turn away the blade of the usurper. And Gwestanion raised his arm to deliver a shattering blow, but suddenly he cried out in pain and wheeled; and lo! Gwenniol sprang away, having pierced Gwestanion's shoulder between the links of his mail.

Seeing his attacker, Gwestanion gave a harsh laugh and said, "What, ha, little flea! Thinkest thou that thou mayst inflict a bite and escape without satisfying me?"

And Gwenniol cried in his high clear voice, "Nay, the only satisfaction shall be mine when thou liest dead at my feet!" Enraged, Gwestanion fell upon the lad, but found him too nimble to harm, and so they fought in a strange dance while Amrundil looked on, dazed and bleeding, thinking the duel like one between a bull and a fox. But the false King was possessed of the strength of the hooded boy many times over, and when their swords met that of the Elf-child fell to the ground. Then the eyes of Gwestanion blazed in triumph from beneath his golden helm, for he was certain of manifold victory: child, lord, and crown in succession; and he plunged the point of his sword deep into the boy's chest. Amrundil, watching, gave a strangled cry of grief, but no sound issued from the mouth of Gwenniol; yet in one swift movement Gwenniol seized the very blade of Drauganc and wrenched it out of the hands of its bearer and also from the folds of his tunic, for Gwestanion was caught unawares in his moment of glee, and in a last courageous effort with both hands drove the blade down into the unarmored place beneath the shoulder into the heart of Gwestanion. Then both fell to the ground, and their dark blood was mingled upon the flagstones of the forest.

Seeing their king vanquished, the host of Calmarun was dismayed and began to withdraw, while the men of Dunlas fought the more fiercely; but Amrundil crawled to Gwenniol's side, thrust aside the corpse cast upon him, and gathered him up in his arms.

"Gwenniol, Gwenniol!" he cried, taking in his hands those of the child, which flowed freely with blood where the mighty blade of Drauganc had bit into the fingers. "You who call yourself Debtor have left me irreversibly in yours!"

The reply came slowly and brokenly, a jagged whisper like a winter wind through the thin veil. "No, my Lord," said Gwenniol, "I have at last paid my debt to you." Faltering hands grasped for the sword, and Amrundil closed the boy's fingers around them. "I know your lineage, and you shall now know mine. The man I have slain here is my brother. In days long past our forefather took this sword from your mother's line by the wicked spilling of blood, and a curse has justly lain upon all our household. Today this sword has drunk of both our blood, the last of that cursed line, and I now render it to you, the rightful king of Calmarun."

"But who are you and whence came you?" cried Amrundil, all the more mystified. "For I reckoned you one of the noble Mirkwood Elves, yet you claim kinship with this wretched man."

From beneath the veil was visible the faintest of smiles. "Amanlindë you once named me, and this day the name holds true, for I have indeed purged my song of evil." And Amrundil was bidden to unclasp the hood, and he lifted it, amazed and overcome with sorrow, and saw that beneath the grey cloak was the face of Nestaloth. "Forgive me," she whispered, and spoke no more, and though he called her name many times he could not recall her spirit from its final flight; and so he cradled her to his chest and wept long and bitterly.

Victorious home came the host of Amrundil, and most highly praised was the son of Harthing, whom Balan named his heir and who claimed also the kingship east of Mirkwood, and long did the forest road serve as the binding cord between those two happy lands under rule of the flourishing and joyous line of Amrundil. But Amrundil himself rode not the path to his home that day, nor was there joy in his heart; he led his horse by the bridle and laid upon its back the body of Nestaloth Amanlindë, and when he came by his crowns to all his subjects East and West he gave account of her deeds. For her they gave a burial as for a beloved princess, and out of love for her memory Gorling made of her history both a lay and a lament, the substance of which is set herein as a lasting tribute to her name.


	10. Epilogue

Epilogue

These words Amrundil spoke to Gorling of the daughter of Nanqueto some days after his return:

"My heart is sorely grieved at the passing of Nestaloth; all is dark and joyless to me at the death of so worthy a lady. And she by her death preserved me and maybe all our people from a fatal blow at the hand of her wicked brother; yet poorly was she welcomed by our people, and poorly have I acknowledged her service to me."

Gorling spoke gently and said, "If she was estranged, it was self-chosen, for she would have rather have shunned the joys of the company of Men if by doing so she could spare them the evil of her line and keep that same joy unblemished. Ever did her thought turn to the well-being of others, and seeing a need she would not tarry to answer it."

A sad silence lingered as both men fell into the halls of brooding remembrance, where even the sweetest memories cannot be drunk unmixed with the gall of the past. Of this gall Amrundil had filled his cup and now drank as one executing his own sentence.

At length Gorling said, "The lady Nestaloth loved you well, and dearly did she cherish your kindness to her. I do not think she would for a moment have regretted her choice, nor would she have counted it a sacrifice. Do not dwell overlong in sadness, for I guess she would not have desired it of you."

"How, Gorling," cried the young king at this, "when these words drive deeper the thorn of grief into my side! For it was in my heart to seek her hand, that her song might be woven into my tale, and if her affections were mine even then, I am now a man doubly deprived."

"Such a love she would never have sought from you," replied Gorling, "and even as she felt her heart warm towards you she turned to you an increasingly cold face, that she might not lure you into her curse. Nay, my Lord, be not bitter and sad! Time flows ever onward and we are powerless to turn our prows against its current. Shadow now reigns in your heart, but it will turn to light, and you will again laugh as she so loved to hear you. She has bought peace for us all, and for herself as well; now is the hour when we may rejoice in it."

In time the words of Gorling came to pass, and the following spring Amrundil took to wife a fair maiden of Calmarun, a bright spirit with a ready smile. Great joy there was at the wedding, and light was in the eyes and heart of the King as he danced with his new bride; their laughter mingled with the wedding songs of his people. And upon the grave of Nestaloth tender white flowers unfurled their chaste petals and smiled back at the jubilant sun.


	11. Appendix

Appendix

Within is written a glimpse into the time Nestaloth passed in Coronthalion, recounted in brief above. These details were not at first known but later disclosed to Gorling son of Fortham, who endeavored to assemble a full history of the two lines.

Now Nestaloth was shut deep within the stronghold of Coronthalion, and her brother had decreed that the dawn would see her dead. And to gloat over his powerless quarry he had her brought to his chambers, bound, and there tormented her.

"Thou thinkest to chide me like a wayward child, but this conquest will make me great beyond the imaginings of Gayamarth himself," he said to her. "For Gayamarth was a fool who had not the mettle to finish what he began. Knowest thou, sister, what man it is who sits in line for the throne of that dotard Balan? A fair-faced boy, by all accounts. Doubtless it was some doe-eyed love for him drove you to this place. But you know him not, this Amrundil - he is none other than the son of Tielenien, whom Calar bore! Ah, this news pains you. But you will not flee to him, nor could you save him an you escaped. No, little sister, here you will writhe til the dawn, when the gallows shall set your feet to a livelier dance. And come daylight I myself shall ride out and slay this lowly son of a weak king." And so she was dragged back to the dungeon.

But the self-same friend who had made plea to Mirthuniel on her behalf not a year ago, Restaguin by name, now served in the kitchen of the fortress, not far from the cells. Now Restaguin was a gentle soul, given to playing on a set of pipes. Often did he wander Mirkwood Forest, fearing not its lurking secrets, and there became acquainted with the Elves of that land. So quickly did he learn their tongue and so eagerly did he give ear to their lore that they named him an Elf-friend, and arrayed him as one of their own.

This garb did Restaguin bestow upon Nestaloth when he came upon her deep into that night. The guards he had lured away with choice foods from the night's feast, for little did Gwestanion think to reward his humbler servants with rich food and drink. The key was easily coaxed from the hands of the guard, and it was upon Restaguin's horse that Nestaloth made her escape from the city. And Restaguin grieved at their parting, knowing into what peril she flew. But he bethought himself and resolved to delay the riding of Gwestanion as long as he might; by means of a few bitter herbs he kept the King ill and abed for nearly three nights after his purposed departure. So it was that the main host of the King's army set out five days after the flight of Nestaloth, and so wroth was he at the delay that he thought nothing of her absence.

Thus did the friendship of Restaguin weight the scales of that fateful hour, though none could have foretold the end.


	12. Selected Guide to Names

My mastery of Tolkien's languages is trifling at best; I offer sincere apologies to my expert readers and to Tolkien himself. I have relied extensively on the knowledge presented in _The Languages of Tolkien's Middle Earth _(Ruth S. Noel, 1980) and Yahoo's Elfling group, among other Web resources.

Selected Guide to Names 

_Amanlindë_ blessed song, song free from evil

_Amrundil_ lover of(/friend of, devoted to) sunrise/the East

_Calar_ shining queen

_Calmarun_ eastern lamp

_Coronthalion_ strong mound

_Dindaen_ silent shadow

_Drauganc_ wolf-jaws

_Gayamarth_ dread death

_Fimlas_ slender leaf

_Luinlach_ blue flame

_Malaira_ golden summer

_Mirduniel_ jewel of the West

_Firathar_ mortal lord

_Gwestanion_ son of (the) promise

_Gwenniol_ debtor5

_Nestaloth_ healing flower

_Nanqueto_ recant, repent

_Rhachonion_ son of (the) curse

_Restaguin_ aid in living

_Sárion_ bitterness

_Tielenien_ cease-sorrow


End file.
